Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

Samira laughs: “It’s the latest style, madam.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“From Chicurel. Three days before it was blown up. You can still get them at Chemla or Oureeko.”

“Nowadays, one gets scared to even go to these stores.”

“Try the Egyptian Factories Outlet store.”

Her husband says the time has come for the government to ban the Muslim Brotherhood. Samira complains that Nadeen wants a new hairdo in the latest style. “Two wavy tresses, a short bob around the sides, stacked up behind the neck in the shape of a beret.” She crosses her legs. Her skirt comes up to her knees. She is wearing nylon stockings. Father looks over the bare part of her plump legs.

Nabila says: “Have you seen the bonnets they’re coming out with now?”

Samira says that one of her husband’s relatives attended a high tea organized by Princess Faiza for the new society for the welfare of women. She said she saw women in strange bonnets with large bird feathers sticking out of them. “Most of them wore black, as though they were at a funeral or something.” Nabila says that black is still in style.

Father asks Nadeen what department she’ll be joining the coming year. She says: “Philosophy.” He suggests she start reading up on it now. He gives her the name of a book on Islamic philosophy and another in human psychology. I get the feeling that she doesn’t think much of his suggestions.

A relative of Uncle Fahmi joins us. He’s a student in the last year of law school. He is wearing a navy blue jacket with two rows of buttons down the front. A thin necktie. Glasses with big square frames. He uses an old-fashioned title, “aneeshta,” instead of “uncle” when he talks to father. His sister Selwa, a student at the American School for Girls, comes in after him.

The two children pull back and disappear into the room of Showqi and Shareen. Alwy, the older son of Hajj Hamdy, comes in. A white coat with one button to the side and long lapels that end up at his belly button. Grey trousers with pleats and white shoes. He takes off his fez to reveal shiny, short hair that clings to his scalp.

Father asks him about his dad who is going on hajj for a second time. He says: “He should be on top of Mount Arafat right about now.” Khadra brings in cups of coffee and glasses of Spathis fizzy drink.

Alwy removes a small cup made of glass from his pocket. Uncle Fahmi claps: “That’s it. He brought the goods.” Alwy says: “So you won’t have any excuses.” I know that he sets the dice before he throws them with his hand, so no one wants to throw dice with him unless they use a cup.

Everyone heads out to the veranda. Nabila puts on a sweater, saying that it’s getting a bit cold. Father’s cackles echo loudly. I go up to the children’s room. The door’s cracked open. I steal a peek. Shareen is leaning over the bed flipping through a magazine. I hear Selwa’s voice saying softly that she got hold of a novel by Yusuf al-Sabaey. Shareen shows them a page from the magazine about a new American game called the hula hoop. Nadeen comes into my view. She puts her hand on her small chest. She turns toward the door but I jump back quickly. I hear her say that the Americans invented a new bra that snaps and unsnaps in the front so a girl doesn’t have to reach her hand behind her back to take it off. Their laughing sounds like they’re embarrassed.

I push open the door and go in. No one turns to me. Shareen flips the pages of the magazine. In a loud voice she calls out the names of the films that are playing: “ Fame or Riches, with Mohamed Abdel Motalleb and Hassan Fayek. The Island Princess with Tahia Karioka, Bishara Wakeem, Ismail Yaseen, and Shakookoo. The Man Who Doesn’t Sleep, at the Metro with Yusuf Wahbi and Mediha Yosri. Toward Glory, directed by and starring Hussain Sidqi. He’s a bore.” She throws the magazine away. I pick it up and flip through its pages. A picture of the king in military uniform wearing field glasses stares up at me. Under the picture in a fancy script, it says: “The first of the fighters.”

I leave the room and go from there to the outer parlor. I listen next to the wall that separates it from the kitchen. The sound of dishes being washed. The door to the terrace room is closed. I pass through the hall that goes to the country-style bathroom. There’s an open window facing the street. The pop of firecrackers blows through it. I get up on my tip-toes. I spot Showqi with a hunting rifle in his hand. I go into the country-style bathroom. I pee. I walk out. Open the door to the terrace room. I go in and close the door behind me. The brass handle of the dresser is broken. I pull on it. The drawers are empty. A few of them have some old clothes. I want to leave, but I hear the sound of someone running. Softly, I open the door a crack. Khadra is pushing on the door to the living room. Her face shows that she’s scared. Uncle Fahmi comes from the kitchen and pushes behind her. His Mantouvli slippers slap against the tiled floor. He tries to grab her. She goes into the dining room with him behind her. I go out to the parlor. I peek through the door to the dining room. My glasses bang against the wooden door handle. He throws her down on to the couch. His face is red, his eyes flashing. He reaches his hand to her chest. She pushes him away and begs in a low voice: “Please, no, sir. Please don’t cut me off.” She goes around the table then passes in front of the children’s room. She comes over to the door leading to the outer parlor. I jump back in a hurry. I go to hide on the terrace. I hear her open the door to the apartment and go out. I walk out of the terrace into the living room. Uncle Fahmi is bent over the mirror of the sideboard. He looks over his face. He sets his hair. He stands up straight. He goes into the guest room on his way to the veranda. The sound of his footsteps fades as he steps on to the thick carpet.

The knocking on the front door goes on. I climb over father’s sleeping body and come back down on the other side. I put on my slippers, and go out to the living room. I turn the key in the door. Fatima pushes it so that it almost hits me in the face. She goes ahead of me into our room.

“You two are still sleeping?”

Father pulls up the covers as he answers: “It’s Friday today.”

“Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Father falls back on his right side. His gallabiya comes up and shows his bare legs. My eye falls on his prick sticking out of the opening in his underpants. Blown up, like a cat’s head. He stays stretched out on his side without bothering to cover himself. He looks at Fatima. He stretches out his hand and rubs his prick. He pushes up to a sitting position with his legs dangling from the side of the bed.

She asks: “What would you like to have for breakfast? Should I make hot cereal with milk or ful beans?” I say: “Tahini with honey.” She says: “There isn’t any.”

Father says to me: “Here. Take a half a franc and go get some from the oil shop.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

He says: “It’s Friday and Abbas will want his breakfast.”

She says: “Yeah, I have to go to him or he’ll skin me alive.”

I go to the bathroom. I get past my fears and go into the toilet room. I pee, then wash my hands and face. I go back to the room. Father is standing next to the dresser and Fatima is sitting on the edge of the bed. I dry my face with the towel hanging from the chair back. I start to take off my pyjama top, so I can put on trousers and a shirt. Father says: “Don’t waste time. Just go in your pyjamas.” He gives me half a franc. I say: “Where’s the dish to put it in.” Fatima answers: “On the sideboard.”